


the god of loss

by fate-motif (fate_motif)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Endings, POV Multiple, References to Clue | Cluedo, What Could Have Been, What Ended Up Happening, What Should Have Been
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25037596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fate_motif/pseuds/fate-motif
Summary: If they hadn’t been the sole keepers of those moments, perhaps they might not have been lost.Could their story have stepped out from the shadows, at any point?[What could have been, what should have been, and what was.]
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Magnus Manson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 8





	1. prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "can we just go back there? an ode to a friend" (ode to a friend, old sea brigade)

History is woven out of the threads of life made tangible. The letters, the shoes, the rifles and the medals. Songs and stories eventually make their way into such immortality, if so deemed worthy. Many of them are not. They take a back seat to figures and lists for posterity. Valued only by their own characters until their hands become too full of those songs and stories and they are forced to let one go.

There is a sudden drop in temperature on the 3rd of January of the year 1846, far up in the Arctic circle. The day after, the crew complement of the HMS _Erebus_ goes down by one. Fatalities add up over the weeks of winter, as do bodies in the hold. That is, until the thaw. That's when the HMS _Terror’s_ crew complement goes up by one as the HMS _Erebus’_ loses yet another member of its own. Not much can be said about what those figures mean historically, but while the men of the Franklin expedition could bear witness, there was more to them than death dates and transfers. The diligence of a newly added seaman may mean little in the scheme of things. Less names in duty owed, maybe. But the songs that year may have been sung louder with a new voice among the men. Beyond the drop in the Terror's rations, there must have been days of insecurity, resentment, struggle for that new soul. There must have also been a drift back into a new world - colder, lonelier, but real. In that world, new souls would have waited for him to heal and meet a new Thomas Hartnell.

There is an incident onboard the HMS _Terror_ in November of the year 1847. Three men are lashed. Charges are laid out, but excuses are omitted. Any mention of the losses taken by the ship three days earlier in relation to the crime is lost. As are the nights of watch that followed; grim and fearful, under a gaze no British man had ever felt before while their captain drank himself to stupefaction in his quarters. Even the charges aren’t elaborated upon and come more as an empty list of words over which to call for punishment on the men over any real justice. Just as well, the incident is irrelevant in the scheme of record if overshadowed by the mass exodus from _Terror_ that followed. What remains is such a lack of witnesses that what followed may as well have not even happened. Not the words of kindness between two seamen punished, brought about in sympathy at witnessing each other's pain. Not the songs shared between them, in the absence of their fellow mates who would have joined them. Least of all the moments together sprinkled in with a hand-hold, an embrace, a pat on the shoulder or a gift in obligation. And certainly not the flushes in their faces when looking away and thinking of each other with more praise than they were brave enough to utter aloud. (The other seaman punished is a little busy down in the bowels of the ship putting unmentionable history to shame.)

On the first day of sunlight in the Arctic of 1848, there's a roster of men lost to a fire that ended Captain James Fitzjames’ Carnivale. The deceased; they were all that mattered. The sun and the flames could have burnt away the previous night for all of those involved. Clinging to the fleeting instances of merriment would have been an insult in the face of all the dead. The absence of these instances from the record came from respect, but they must have happened. Singing, drinking and racing must have taken place amongst the men. For the first time in months, many of them could eat like there was food to spare. And there were also moments where some men had danced together in the din and the dark of the tents like no one was watching because in truth, no one was. Two of them had all but been invisible when brushing a blond lock off a face, or pressing lips on a reddened cheek during a piggyback ride. And drinking in each other’s smiles in the candlelight like nothing would ever keep them from wanting to remember. If they hadn’t been the sole keepers of those moments, perhaps they might not have been lost.

Could their story have stepped out from the shadows, at any point?


	2. what could have been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "it's hard, to let you go chasing your dreams. but I know, you will return back to me - so i'll wait here with the love that sets me apart" (forever ago, woodlock)

1.

On the evening of the 5th of April of the year 1848, an officer on morning watch fetches the Ice Master of the HMS _Terror_ up on deck. Over the following weeks, the grip of the ice sheets on the vessel weakens and recedes. There’s cautious hope, log entries on both _Terror_ and _Erebus_ are careful to write down. Temperatures rise, the size of the ice chunks surrounding them shrinks. Little by little the distance the ships cover increases until suddenly, direction begins to matter once more. There was more behind the thaw than the log entries of the officers, of course. Word simmers back and forth through the orlop between the seamen right from the start of the thaw. Word grows when the ships turn round in the direction of Barrow Strait. It's no longer word by the time they're covering miles and it was common knowledge that they were turning back to England to full disgrace.

“So many of us signed up to achieve the Passage, and this is where we’ve ended.” Any of the sailors might have said this, but on this evening in May, it's Able Seaman Thomas Hartnell who does. His head is cocked to the west during duty like he can't tear himself away from their original goal. The expedition makes no note of his dread making its way through Peel Sound. Later on after dinner, though, one of his fellow seamen does. Thomas needn't say anything before Magnus Manson puts a hand on his back when they're walking to their hammocks. 

“There's no sweeter place than the old country, and we've almost forgotten it,” says Magnus. Their fellow men walk around them about their way without listening in. Tom sits down by his sea-chest to retrieve something only to wince when both his own belongings and his brother's stare back at him.

“This isn't how we should have come back,” he says, not even to Magnus by his side.

“But we're coming back,” Magnus shakes his head. “We could all be lost right now.”

Tom pauses before retrieving one of the knots he'd been working on for weeks. He's holding his tongue, because “some of us are already lost.” was nothing to say to someone Tom did not want lost. He looks back up to Magnus. He's now looking away at the entrance to the hold nervously like he was thinking of the day they had put Mr. Hornby in the dead room. A thought strikes Tom with the suddenness of a lightning bolt; he's recoiling away from it almost as quickly. He wouldn't be so ready to grouse at their turning back if it was Manson who was in their hold. He climbs up to his hammock wordlessly but gnashing teeth to himself.

He was returning to Chatham on his own without John and he's thanking his stars that Magnus Manson has lived?

* * *

Peel Sound is somehow unfrozen once again in the summer of 1848. By the time they’ve made it across Barrow Strait Lieutenant John Irving suggests to their Captain having several members of their expedition dismissed from the service for uselessness. It’s only a remark in journals among the officers and not yet a reality for the time of being. One conversation, however, was enough to perk the ears of a steward. Magnus Manson is among the names of the sailors recommended to be disrated from the service. A few days after, Mr. Manson himself requests his own dismissal to Lieutenant Irving for when they make it back to Orkney. The lieutenant makes note of the request. It’s all up in the air while they sail their way out of the icy labyrinth of the Arctic, after all.

Manson himself, however, has a weaker grasp on discretion than his superiors. He’s not even aware when exactly he gives his intentions away. He finishes his duties cleaning up decks when he finds Tom Hartnell giving him a strange look from across the galley when Tom is set up for another watch. It's later in the evening, when both are finally off-duty, that they can speak from across each other's hammocks. Once again they are alone among their fellow seamen. Two drops in the sea.

“You’re ready to go back to Orkney, Manson?”

“Lieutenant Irving recommended it,” he answers, face flushing.

Tom slips off his hammock to place a hand on his mate’s shoulder. “I have seen men do far worse in the service than you have here. I find that hard to believe - just because you gave him a licking last winter?”

Magnus looks in the direction of the forecastle as Tom speaks. He rarely, if ever, looks into Tom’s eyes when he speaks. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to sign up for very long. The lieutenant had me up for dismissal. Uselessness.” He then turns to Tom, eyes grave and almost narrowed. “I’m not useless, Tom, but if they don’t want me here I’d rather go home.”

Tom’s mouth opens but he’s already struggling with the words he wants to say - once, twice. He’s lost for words but Magnus himself only smiles back at him kindly. There is something Tom wants to say, Magnus knows that much. But he can’t say it here, or now. So instead he pulls off Tom’s hand off his shoulder with as much softness as he can muster, then turns to sleep on his stomach.

* * *

The expedition disembarks at Limestone Island not long after. The temperatures begin to dwindle day after day. Whatever bolt of hope had run through the expedition was beginning to wear off by the date of Lieutenant George Hodgson’s death on the 11th of July of 1848. He is not the only one to draw into the next world on that day. A petty officer on _Terror_ , a mate on _Erebus._ The funeral takes so long it celebrates a mass grave by the time it comes around. All those witnesses to the officers’ funeral could swear thereafter that the optimism began to drain from the captain’s face the longer he spoke at the service. Said service ended in a confession - a pale, feeble confession.

“The expedition’s supplies are and have always been a risk to us, men, and I will not have them cut us down to the last man before we set foot in our own lands.”

The first hunting expeditions set out not long after to the main island, while there is water to row on. Three parties head off east, south and southeast under the lieutenants Little, Irving and now Jopson. Tom Hartnell heads off under the new lieutenant Jopson’s command for the march southeast. Every member of the party keeps their eyes peeled for the merest speck of movement in the horizon stretching before them. Whatever is keeping their faith, however, does not deliver. On the evening back, Tom Hartnell may or may not be murmuring harsh things under his breath. What against? Against the stones under his feet, against the lack of game, against the Lord and the Empire letting them waste themselves in the expanse? Whoever may be hearing suffices.

By the time they’re back on the boats, Tom’s back begins to bleed again.

Fishing is a more successful enterprise, what with nets the sailors can make with rope. Those pulling up the ropes cut their hands heaving up what meagre findings of salmon and halibut they find. There’s still joyful shouting and screaming among the men at the sky and at the sea. Over time their skill only grows, as does their catch. They even pull up a seal on the third evening of their labors. Mr. Diggle makes sure to thank all of the men by name when his kitchen is graced again with something lacking poison. Francis Pocock, Thomas Honey, Robert Golding, Magnus Manson. When the hunting parties all return empty handed they’re met with grins of drunken victory. Pinching his cracked and bleeding lips, Magnus gives the loudest whistle he can manage when Lieutenant Jopson’s party comes aboard. He is actually not reprimanded for this by Lieutenant Irving.

In the evening, Mr. Goodsir bandages Tom’s back again. Manson is there to help him walk back to his hammock.

* * *

On the 14th of September of the year 1848 HMS _Erebus_ and HMS _Terror_ arrive at Cunningham Inlet and meet HMS _Enterprise_. At the helm is James Clarke Ross. What follows is a winter of delirium where nothing else existed but the three ships stationed at Batty Bay on the western end of Somerset Island. Everything the seamen under Franklin had survived seemed like a distant nightmare during that winter. Festivals were set up, feasts were eaten. England and her Empire could have never understood the frenzy that possessed the men when they were rescued. They, after all, could never have gotten their hands on the stories that they had lived and set them in stone. It was all for the better.

On one such festival on Christmas Eve, Magnus Manson pulls Tom Hartnell away from the crowds to look at the stars. They laugh the entire walk, soaked through with more drink than they’d had since coming under grog restrictions. Midway to the beaches, Tom slips on the frozen ground with a hiccup. Magnus kneels by his side, opens his coat, and then embraces Tom to keep him under his coat. Tom takes a breath of relief when he’s surrounded by warmth, then breathes in deep.

“Don’t pull away yet,” Tom asks, weakly. Magnus then slides to Tom’s side, still keeping Tom under the cover of his coat. 

“It’s too cold.” Magnus shakes his head, then wraps his arms around Tom. They remain in silence together. It would have been too easy for both of them to slip into dreams and never wake up. Instead, Tom squeezes Magnus’ hand gently until his eyes flutter open again. When he has Magnus looking down into his eyes, an unbidden flight of fancy leaps at him. Tom presses his forehead against Magnus’ and holds his breath like he’s about to jump into the ocean. It’s an endless instant, and he thinks it will remain so until a hand caresses his cheek. 

Tom opens his eyes.

When he wakes he has been displayed on a table at one of the tents like a Christmas turkey to be carved up and a garland placed on his head. He comes to a start there, surrounded by firelight and all of his mates laughing raucously at the exhibition. A cup of tea spills over his pant leg.

“And I thought he wasn’t going to wake up!” laughs Bobby Golding, throwing a napkin in his direction. 

Tom turns his head all around in confusion before finally letting himself exhale and chuckle. He’s still making a fist in his hand mindlessly. The warmth of his own hand didn’t feel complete.

* * *

The HMS _Enterprise_ returns to Orkney with the remainder of the Franklin expedition on the 9th of July of 1849. The date becomes one of the most eventful in the history of the Isles. Lady Jane Franklin had already made her way to them beforehand, as soon as word of the expedition came back to her. The letters that returned to England had already become a target of intense discussion. All their contents, however, remained unclear until the word of the survivors became a priority. At Orkney, that word becomes the center of the spotlight. And yet it is Sir James Clarke Ross who takes to speak on their behalf. He knows as much as every man that weathered the horrors under Franklin that even the truth will not be listened to if it’s not written down or spoken by the right man. Just as well, not every story can make it to the mainland because there’s no place for them. No unearthly beasts, no instances of pride. Half truths will have to suffice.

Upon reaching Orkney there is one seaman who comes to when he returns to British soil. What could have been a pleasant visit through the Isles becomes instead a hurricane of letters and forms to prepare for a future for Thomas Hartnell, Able Seaman. There are letters to his mother, to his younger siblings, John’s belongings to prepare and send home. Whenever he signs his name and position, his heart sinks. He might have had hope for a promotion if it hadn’t been for that whipping incident. Any attempt to recall what happened afterwards fails him. It had been over a year of clawing to live, live no matter the cost. And now that he has lived, he ponders to the candlelight under which he writes, he has stalled his career and forgotten his family.

On the 12th of May of 1849 Magnus Manson leaves the service, dismissed upon his own request. He takes a boat south to Dunrosses on a dreary gray morning after a veritable deluge. The majority of his time he spends out looking leeward and hanging on to every word he can from the last evening he spent among the ABs. When it was time to close for the night, a hand had shot out and held him back by the wrist when he intended to leave the inn. Lightning crackled above the two when Magnus looked back to see Tom Hartnell frowning up at him. In his mind’s eye, The rain begins to pour down his head and shoulders. 

“Magnus. You didn’t say goodbye.”

Magnus pulls back his hand and looks away from Tom. He’s not fast enough to hold back an audible sob. Tom then walks up to him and places his hand on his chest. It’s heaving now.

“Hey.” Tom reaches out a hand to point Magnus’ face towards his. The man’s face is stricken with loss.

“You’ll forget me.” 

The simplicity of the accusation. Anything Tom might have said is useless against it. Instead of denying it, Tom hangs his head and swears.

“Heaven take pity on my soul if I do.”

On the 18th of May of 1849 Thomas Hartnell’s shore leave comes to an end. It is the start of a career in the navy he carves out for himself from the remains of the Franklin expedition. Every day thereafter, his resentment from the hunting party at Somerset Isle holds. It takes him decades to realize he’s still waiting for the joyous whistle of a fellow AB from the quarterdeck. By then it’s too late and there’s no one on the other end to receive his correspondence. 


End file.
